


Scheherazade’s Gambit

by FromAnonymousToZ



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Forced to Kneel, I hesitate to tag stockholm syndrome but be aware this story could be construed that way, Implied/Referenced Character Death, In a parallel timeline to the political saga, Kneeling, M/M, Minor Character Death, Political Alliances, Resigned to his Fate, Scheherazade’s Gambit, Sort Of, The beast sings canon songs, angst but possibly not, where enoch decides not to take anyone's shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromAnonymousToZ/pseuds/FromAnonymousToZ
Summary: The Beast thinks in another time, in another world, he and Lord Autumn would have gotten along.He sees fragments of the being Lord Autumn might be outside of this never-ending war when they debate in the gazebo, the sly, witty, teasing, gentle magistrate he is outside of this war.But for now, they are foes.
Relationships: The Beast/Enoch (Over the Garden Wall)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	Scheherazade’s Gambit

The Beast thinks in another time, in another world, he and Lord Autumn would have gotten along. 

He sees fragments of the being Lord Autumn might be outside of this never-ending war when they debate in the gazebo, the sly, witty, teasing, gentle magistrate he is outside of this war. 

But for now, they are foes. 

The Beast respects the Autumn Lord. He is a clever hunter and a brilliant tactician; he deals with mortals in an admiral way. The Beast would never personally take up such tactics when luring in mortals, but he respects him. 

He respects the being’s drive and his determination to protect his town. The Autumn Lord’s ruthlessness when his people were threatened was beyond compare. 

They may be foes, but only because in this war, they could not continue to coexist. The Beast had no personal quarrel with the Autumn Lord.

The Beast meditates on this as he stands before the Autumn Warden with his fellow wardens, awaiting judgment. 

They had lost the war. 

Perhaps not lost, nothing was lost until blood was spilled and heads rolled. None of them were dead yet. 

The Beast had never been fighting in the first place. 

But he was captured with the rest of them. His head would roll with those who fought and those who didn't all the same, so really it was all just semantics, footnotes really. 

He wonders, idly, if in another time, another world, where they were not locked in this senseless war if the Death Rearer would delight in debates over semantics with him. 

They are gathered in one of Lord Autumn’s numerous barns, bound, standing, in ribbons so thick with magic and enchantment it would be suicide to struggle. Green ribbons lick up about their feet, the floor so thick with a carpet of green fabric that views of the dirt floor were sparse. The idly twitching and stirring ribbons fill the barn with a rasp of cloth. The ribbons lead to the ever ominous maypole flesh, its head supported by ribbons tied up in the rafters.

Lining the barn is a council of the autumn lord’s closest Pottsfeilders. Each has an enchanted blade upon their hips, singing a melody of blood lust.

The Beast dares not delve too deeply into Lord Autumn’s web to feel the enchantments' specifics, mildly concerned with how the Autumn Lord will react to such an action. Even without intimate access to the Harvest King’s web, he can feel how the enchantments on such blades cause the world to distort.

The Pottsfielders are silent in their vigil, watching over their prisoners and their Lord. 

The Beast supposes the Autumn Lord must have a name, but he’s never been privy to it. 

“Harvest Lord, how dare you-” Madame Summer hisses. Abruptly, the maypole’s head snaps towards her. 

A growl rises up from the earth, using the maypole as its mouthpiece. 

“If I were you, Sea Witch, I would learn to hold my tongue.”

Madame Summer wisely chooses to forgo continuing her statement. 

The Beast hums at that and notes the way the Harvest Lord’s ribbons snake across the ground.

He casts a glance to his fellow wardens and notes dryly that some of them are more bound in green fabric than others. 

Tzar Spring is practically dripping with green ribbons woven tightly around his legs and abdomen.

The Beast has only a loop of green ribbon around his wrists and another ribbon bound like a noose around his neck. A suggestion of compliance.

He’s not sure if he should be offended by the lack of precaution or if Lord Autumn has the wisdom to believe the Beast would not act out. 

The Beast has to breathe shallowly in Lord Autumn’s domain. 

The smells of cinnamon, molasses, rot, cider, alcohol, and sugar melt into a positively intoxicating promise of plenty that has the Beast’s souls quivering with desire to consume. He fears that if he breaths too deeply, he will not be able to resist consuming.

A sudden shifting of fabric draws the Beast’s attention to the maypole. Slowly the ribbons in the rafters tighten and pull the maypole up so that it no longer hangs from ribbons. It looms forward.

“Dutchess of the Clouds.” Lord Autumn finally addresses them, his attention on the Dutchess. The maypole’s ribbons ripple. “Kneel, and submit your domain to me. Pledge your allegiance.” 

His voice is low and deep and old. It vibrates up through the ground and up through the Beast’s feet. Almost without realizing, the Beast hums lightly in response, pitching his voice into a quiet, tranquil harmony. 

He wonders if he can replicate it.

The Harvest Lord casts a glance at him but does not comment on it.

The Dutchess snarls at him, her delicate hairdo around her shoulders, matted with sweat and ichor. 

“I would rather die!” She declares, eyes furious. 

Her anger coats the air, like the tainting of ozone in the air before a lightning strike.

For a moment, the barn hangs in silence as Wardens and Pottsfeilders alike wait with bated breath to see how the Autumn Lord will respond to such an offense.

“That can be arranged.” The Harvest Lord says, voice grim.

And he tears her wings off. 

Now that does get the Beast’s attention. Evidently, the Harvest Lord was well researched enough to know how to kill each of them specifically. No simple blade would spell their demise, but they all had their weaknesses.

The ribbons holding the Dutchess aloft withdraw, retreating into the tangled nest at the center of the maypole.

The Dutchess’ body falls limply to the ground, gilded ichor staining the green of the maypole gold. The maypole regards the body as it rapidly begins to dissipate to little more than feathers and vapor. The sharp ozone smell began to fade but was soon overtaken by souring fear emanating from his fellow patrons and the awful stench of ichor.

Without remorse, the maypole turns to the next warden in line.

“Lady of the Winds, kneel before me and submit your realm to me. Pledge your allegiance.” The shaking figure, a wisp of smoke, only ever half solid, bows and says her pledge. 

The oath binds itself. 

And so it goes, down the line, one by one, the wardens kneel, or they die. 

Tzar Spring chooses death, but his daughter kneels; her daughter likewise kneels. Lady Midnight bows her head but does not kneel, and the harvest lord asks nothing more of her. Madame Summer and Sir Heavens, Her High Lady Noon, on and on it goes.

They bow or die. 

The maypole never deviates from his script. There is no room for mercy, no room for begging or bargaining. 

The corpses lay there, discarded, limp upon the ground, eyes growing glossy as their bodies rapidly begin to dissolve, reverting and returning to what they once were.

At last, Lord Autumn comes before the Beast. 

“Warden of Winter,” The Beast croons softly at that, pleased that Lord Autumn addresses him properly. “Kneel before me and submit your realm to me. Pledge your allegiance.” 

For a long moment, silence hangs in the air, disrupted only by the rustling of the shifting wardens- those still alive- and Pottsfeilders and the Beast’s humming. 

At last, the Beast ceases his gentle humming. 

He looks at the Autumn Lord in silent appraisal for an eternity captured in minutes. 

The Autumn Lord does not push him, waiting patiently. 

Finally, the Beast closes his eyes and shakes his head, sighing softly, and he speaks. 

His voice is only a murmur, without its usual gravitas, softened by the gentle inevitability of his doom. 

“It does not matter.” 

“Explain.” The Harvest Lord’s ribbons ripple but go still as soon as the word has been spoken. 

“You cannot kill me now. The means are not present.” He looks up at the harvest lord, gaze edged in green and yellow and red. “And even if you could, I will surely die either way.” 

His voice is calm, defeated. 

“If I give up my realm to you, I will surely die, and if I do not, you will keep me here until what fuels me dies on its own or you find it and put it out. Any oath I swear will not take root in me.”

His furs bristle but smooth over quickly. 

“I suspect you know as much, Lord Autumn. You and I both know that I will die no matter my answer. So, I shall appeal to whatever politeness or respect for me you may have. Do not offer me a false choice. It may seem strange for a creature like me to ask for kindness when I myself have done nothing to deserve it when I myself offer no kindness to my own quarry. But I ask of you, Harvest Lord, do not degrade us both so, and act as if there is a choice.”

Slowly, gently, the Beast raises his hands, which he has freed from the Harvest Lord’s ribbons, and tucks them beneath his furs. 

“I am not stupid, Lord Autumn. I will not contest futility, and I ask that you don't either. I'll give you no trouble. I know when my fate is sealed.” 

The Harvest Lord seems to consider this for a long while.

The ribbons of the Harvest Lord twist idly.

“Very well.” Lord Autumn says at last and turns his attentions from the Beast. 

Slowly, the wardens still left alive are unbound, the weight of their new oath weighing heavy on each of them. 

The Harvest Lord sends them off silently.

They fold reality, twist their placement, and flee to lick their wounds and hide in shame. 

Before they retreat, they bow their heads in respect to their new master and disappear, back to realms they govern only by the good grace of Lord Autumn.

The Beast remains, slinking into the shadows at the edge of the barn, watching silently.

The Harvest Lord addresses each of his council of Pottsfeilders pleasantly, though there is tiredness in his voice. He wishes each of them a good night and walks them to the door. When at last they have said their farewells and filed out into the night, the Harvest Lord latches the door. He lingers there, staring at the wall just above the door. 

His ribbons churn and writhe across the floor. The Beast takes a careful step away from the carpeting of green.

He is still watching the ribbons cautiously when the Harvest Lord sighs, vague cinnamon distress, what might have been hope, and tiredness fill the air.

The Harvest Lord turns to face the Beast. The Beast’s head swings up from the ribbons up to the maypole skin. 

He blinks up at it, and the skin stares at him from across the barn.

The maypole ghosts forward, ribbons rasping against one another and filling the barn with the sound of cicadas.

The Autumn Lord no longer looks imposing, just tired. 

His ribbons skirt forward, not as threatening before. 

The Beast still recoils when the wrap around him, the memory of being caught while halfway up a tree still fresh in his mind. 

The ribbons are gentler than they were the last time he found himself bound in them. 

They lace around his chest and lift him easily like a child raising a doll from the ground. 

The maypole settles itself in the loft and gently sets the Beast next to him, ribbons still laced loosely around his chest. 

“I suppose you shall stay here for now. I shall begin the search tomorrow.” The maypole’s voice is worn out. “If I let you go, I’m not sure I’ll be able to catch you again.”

“I do not need to be present for you to extinguish my flame.” 

“When you are here, you cannot actively hide your flame.” 

The Beast has no counterpoint for that, so instead, he leans back and takes one of the Autumn Lord’s ribbons in his claws, gently rolling it up and unrolling it in his hand. 

The Autumn Lord begins to hum. 

The Beast tilts his head back and listens carefully. 

When at last he picks up the tune, he too begins to hum.

The Harvest Lord stops humming. 

The Beast stops. 

He opens one eye and peers at the maypole, which is staring at him, curiosity sharp and poignant in the air around them.

The maypole begins to hum once more, and the Beast joins in. This time, Lord Autumn does not cease.

Eventually, the maypole begins to sing. 

The Beast does not recognize the song, so he hums along, trying to pick out the harmony. 

The Harvest Lord seems to be distracting himself with the song. His ribbons move in lazy, unfocused patterns. It takes the Beast a few listens, but he realizes the Harvest Lord is repeating the song over and over, the end flowing into the beginning seamlessly.

The Beast cocks his head and listens. 

He waits until he thinks he can mostly follow the chorus. 

He waits through the next verse as it burbles through the barn, and when the Autumn Lord begins the chorus, he breaks his humming and begins to sing, deep and full. 

The maypole’s shock is palpable, ribbons flickering in surprise, but his song does not cease.

At last, the song dies out, and the Beast goes silent, stroking the ribbon in his claws idly. 

“I knew the winter woods was home to a singer. I did not realize it was you, Winter Warden.”

“Hm.” The soft sound is the Beast’s only response. 

Slowly, the chorus of crickets and lullaby of the wind fills the silence between them. 

The Beast does not look up to regard Lord Autumn, and Lord Autumn does not demand his attention. 

They sit, in the silence of prisoner and captor, until dawn.

* * *

The Harvest Lord moves about the barn idly, ribbons poking through hay bales. 

The Beast watches him from the darkest corner of the barn. 

“Where on earth-” The Autumn Lord murmurs to himself before puttering to the other side of the barn.

“What are you looking for?” The Beast asks curiosity sparking in his eyes. 

Surprise ripples through the maypole’s ribbons. Lord Autumn whirls, ribbons flashing up defensibly as it gazes at him.

The Autumn Lord stares at him for a moment, and he stares back, blinking lazily.

At last, the ribbons relax, falling back limply at the maypole’s sides. 

“My apologies, Hope Eater, you are so silent, I had nearly forgotten you were there.”

“What are you looking for?” The Beast reiterates. 

“Well, you see, I seem to have misplaced the minutes for the last town meeting.” The Harvest Lord chuckles.

The Beast blinks slowly. 

“Is that the book in the loft?”

“Is it?” The maypole asks, turning so that it looks into the loft. Its ribbons dance forward fluidly and grab the little thing. “How did I miss that?” 

The maypole turns to stare curiously down at him. 

“Did you move it?” 

“Why would I have any reason to look at your town minutes?” The Beast counters.

“Of course,” Lord Autumn murmurs. “My apologies. I did not mean to imply anything.” 

And with that, the Autumn King turned and exited the barn, the maypole folding to duck under the doorframe. 

The Beast stares at the doors as they swing shut, walling off the fleeting touches of sunlight that had managed to slip in.

The Beast could leave. 

He could probably make it out of Pottsfeild. 

It would only result in bringing the wrath of the Harvest Lord, and all of his proxy realms down around him. 

He is no stranger to hiding, and his forest is vast, but it would be idiocy to try to hide forever.

He considers it for a moment as he stands in the corner of the barn. 

There is opportunity, and there is foolishness. 

He waits for the Harvest Lord to return.

* * *

In some very distant way, the Beast understands what the harvest means for Autumn. 

It's the rising of the dead and is a cause for much celebration. 

He had not realized the extent of their celebrations. 

He lurks in the shadows of the barn, peering out through the doors. They've been left ajar, allowing him a glimpse into the heart of their celebration. 

A roaring fire, dancing so bright and so high casts shadows far and long burns at the center of it all. Newly turned dead, shakey, and unsteady on feet that are no longer coated by flesh and blood are guided carefully by relatives and friends and spouses into a whirling dance. 

They move so quickly, dancing and laughing and twirling, exchanging partners, and leaping. Radiating out from the fire, they flutter, cavorting, and waltzing in unorganized chaos. 

They are more subdued at the fringes, talking and laughing and smiling, jokes and conversation flowing smoothly between them. In small bunches, they exchange stories or sing songs or laugh. 

Tables, laden heavy with food that is unlikely to be eaten, groan under the feast piled high upon them. 

Autumn always reeks of contentment and joy, but never so much as it does now. 

Lording over it all, with ribbons braided and adorned with huge yellow pumpkin blossoms, is the Autumn Lord’s maypole. 

The Beast doesn't know if he is meant to witness this celebration of the harvest. 

Perhaps it is a closed event, barred from the prying eyes of outsiders. It feels inappropriate to lurk in the shadows watching their merriment. 

Nonetheless, he continues to watch, silently following the whirling passion and contentment with his gaze as the fire casts long shadows through the sliver where the barn doors are open. 

“Why don't you come and join us?” A silky voice purrs from behind him. 

He turns to find an old tomcat with ragged ears staring up at him with eyes that danced in the firelight’s glow. 

The Beast glances between the maypole and the catskin. 

The autumn lord stares up at him from the catskin. 

The Beast speaks low and privately as if by speaking, he might disrupt the festivities. 

“That hardly seems the place for a prisoner.” He murmurs.

“Oh, every man deserves a last meal.” The cat purrs as it slowly pads forward, tail flicking against his legs as it exits the barn. 

It turns and sits a few feet from the barn entrance. 

The cat licks a stripe up one paw. 

“Come now,” It coos. “Eat, drink, be merry.” 

Gingerly, the Beast steps out into the firelight. 

“There, now, that wasn't so hard. I don't imagine you’re one for socialization, but we may as well get you something to eat.”

The cat stands and walks, weaving its way through the crowd, moving nimbly between dancing feet. 

The Beast remains stock still.

He stands there, plastered against the barn for a long while, watching.

His eyes snap to the maypole when he notices it lean down, bowing forward to address one of his Pottsfeilders. 

The Autumn Lord gestures with a ribbon in his direction, and the Beast stiffens, furs bristling. 

He watches as the woman Autumn Lord was addressing breaks away from the crowd around her. 

He watches her bonnet as it moves through throngs of laughing dancing Pottsfeilders. 

When she makes her way up to him, he thinks he recognizes her as one of the Autumn Lord’s trusted council. 

She looks up at him, friendliness radiating from her. 

“Why, hello, dear,” She says gently. “Lord Autumn was wondering if you’d like to join him.”

The Beast spares a glance from the woman’s carved face to the maypole, then back down to the woman, her hands clasped almost pleadingly before her. 

He blinks slowly. 

“Of course.” He murmurs at last and then stands there dumbly. 

The woman tilts her head, joy and contentment so thick upon her it makes him sick. She offers a hand to him, and hesitantly he obliges and allows her to tuck it in the crook of his arm. 

She guides him through the fringes of the crowd, smiling and laughing as she is addressed by others. 

Eventually, they reach the looming maypole, and the woman releases him. A ribbon falls on his shoulder. 

“There we are. I knew Miss Clara could be trusted to convince you.” The maypole’s voice rumbles up through his feet. “I figure you would rather not dance,”

“Hm.” He hums and steps quickly into the maypole’s shadow, standing close to the nest of braided ribbons.

The maypole turns to address the woman once more. 

“Miss Clara, would you see to fetching our guest a plate and cup.” 

The woman curtsied delicately. 

“Of course!” She replies cheerily and disappears back into the crowd. 

As they watch her go, the maypole speaks.

The Beast pretends to ignore the ribbon that loops around his ankle as if to ensure he does not runoff.

“Oh, dear, I suppose I should have asked first, do you eat, neighbor?” Worry ebbs into the Harvest Lord’s voice as if he has committed a great offense. 

“I prefer not to.” The Beast says stiffly. “I will drink, though.”

The maypole’s ever-present smile pulls wider. 

The Harvest Lord regards him for a moment. 

“You don't much enjoy the light, do you, Hope Eater?”

“I enjoy light only in the sense that it casts shadows.” The Harvest Lord chuckles at his reply. 

“My, how grim for a creature fueled by fire.”

“I am a shadow cast by my flame. I thought it rather fitting.” The Beast retorts, and the Harvest King laughs. 

Perhaps the Harvest King will say something as his laughter dies out, but the woman returns, plate in hand. 

She hands it to the Beast. 

“Thank you.” He replies with some delay.

“Thank you, Miss Clara. I won't keep you from the festivities any longer.” The maypole says sweetly, and the woman laughs. 

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I only want to see our guest is comfortable.”

Lord Autumn glances down at the Beast. 

“You’ve done a wonderful job of it.” The Autumn Lord commends her and then sends her off into the fray with a wave of his ribbons.

The autumn lord’s ribbons pull the plate from his claws gently, leaving the Beast with only the cup. 

The Beast sniffs at it. 

A warm alcoholic cider scent fills his nose. 

He takes a sip and allows the flavor to dance across his tongue. 

He allows his eyes to slip shut so that he can relish in flavors and scents. 

He takes another sip, and when his eyes slide open, the Autumn Lord’s maypole skin is staring down at him.

The Beast glances up at him, and the Harvest Lord hums. 

They stand in semi-companionable silence, watching the whirling festivities. 

Eventually, the Autumn Lord asks him.

“Will you sing?” The Autumn Lord's voice is curious.

“Pardon?” The Beast asks between sips of his drink. 

A strip of green fabric gestures to the Pottsfeilders with fiddles singing and providing the background music for the laughter thundering through the festivities.

He regards the little band. 

“Perhaps.” He glances up from his cup. “Would you like me to?”

“Only if you would be so obliged, Warden.”

“Hm.” The Beast hums and glances down into his cup. “Allow me to finish my drink.”

“I shall be most eager.”

Swiftly he downs his spiked cider.

He clears his throat. 

“At night when the lake is a mirror,” He begins to sing, voice drifting out over the crowd. “And the moon rides the waves to the shore,”

The crowd seems to silence, turning jack-o-lantern faces towards him.

“A single soul sets his voice singing, content to be slightly forlorn.”

As he moves through the next verse, he sees Pottsfeilders exchange glances and return to their dancing, slower and in time with his song. 

“To pluck at a pair of heartstrings.” 

He launches into the next verse, ready to split his voice into a duet, when a voice joins his own. 

“Two voices, now they are singing,” The Harvest Lord purrs. 

He has a lovely singing voice.

Blue dances in wisps through the Beast’s eyes. 

He splits his voice into a chorus, harmonizing with himself. 

“Then ten as a melody soars, round the shimmering pond all are joining in song, as it carries their reverie on,”

As the song draws to a close, the Beast takes a half step back to entirely cloak himself in the maypole’s shadow. 

Applause is the last thing he expects. The clack of bone hands together fills the air, and the Beast blinks, startled. 

He isn't used to an audience. 

“That was lovely,” The Harvest Lord coos. “I must know how you did that trick with your voice.” 

“Practice.”

“Well,” Mirth tinges Lord Autumn’s voice. “You seem to have collected a few adoring fans.”

“What are you referring-” The Beast turns his attention from the maypole and comes face to face with a small crowd of Pottsfeilders. 

“That was simply lovely! You must sing us another one!” 

“Yes, an encore!”

“Perhaps a duet? It's been so long since we’ve been able to tempt him to sing!”

“Oh, it was wonderful. I must know who taught you!” 

Their voices rise up around him in a cacophony, and the Beast shrinks further into the maypole’s shadow, eyes flashing.

Pumpkin faces look up at him expectantly, hope and joy and revelry sting on his tongue. Hands clasp and hesitant steps are taken towards him, and he bristles. 

A length of ribbon settles comfortingly around his shoulders. 

“Now, now, let's not mob the poor creature.” Lord Autumn chastises fondly. 

Somewhat guiltily, they stepped back, shuffling back into the firelight, leaving the Beast imbued in shadow.

“Oh, of course-” 

“It was never our intention-”

“Dreadfully, sorry, dear-” 

“Besides,” The maypole’s ribbons clasp together in a mockery of mortal gesture. “There will be plenty of time to have a second song out of him later. For now, I think he would enjoy some peace.” 

Slowly the group of skeletons disperses, murmuring and talking amongst themselves already. 

The band has picked back up, thrown into a lively tune already. 

“They will have another song out of you, yet, I’ve only delayed the inevitable.” 

The Beast clucks at that and allows another cup of spiced cider to be pushed into his hand.

The Harvest Lord is not the only one delaying the inevitable.

* * *

The storm rages overhead and thunder roars, shaking the foundations of the barn. Lord Autumn moves sharply at the sound, the maypole’s head jerking up heavenward. 

The Beast hisses. 

“Stop moving. It's difficult enough doing this when you are still.” He growls. 

“My apologies, Hope Eater, I did not mean to disrupt your artistic focus.” Lord Autumn’s voice is light and teasing. 

The Beast hmphs at that and returns to his careful work of tying the Harvest Lord’s ribbons up along the rafters, weaving delicate cobweb patterns with the ribbons. He creeps along the rafter in a low crouch, not so afraid of falling as he’s concerned that one of the Harvest Lord’s sudden movements will pull him off balance. 

The Autumn Lord begins to hum, low and soft. The Beast hums back, shifting the tune into something more familiar. The Autumn Lord obliges the Beast’s shift in the rhythm of the song and hums along. 

Without intending to, he finds himself humming Come Wayward Souls and feels a panging flicker in the lantern. 

His forest reaches for him. 

He resists reaching back. 

Instead, he moves on to the next ribbon and ties it into a neat bow. 

Enoch breaks the humming first. 

“Miss Clara will be incredibly grateful that you took on the decorating.” 

The Beast waves a clawed hand idly. He has so little to do to occupy himself these days, it is hardly a tremendous undertaking to spend a few hours tying knots in the Autumn Lord’s second favorite skin. 

He had never considered himself a busy creature. He tended to his forests, balanced the forest's ecosystems, giving a guiding hand here and there, and spent most of his days hunting. And yet, unable to do any of it, he found himself restless. 

He’s sure his forest must be a mess. The paths no longer sure if they should exist or not, wolves and oil corrupted creatures without a master, things under the ice only half serenaded, humans curious as to where their predator and patron had gone. Forests reshuffling without the guide of a song. 

When he dies, when Lord Autumn kills him, the creatures under the ice would emerge to claim his title, unbalanced and driven by instinct like newly born fawns, they would be quickly picked off by the Harvest King. 

His carefully cultivated forest will fall to shambles, held in the ribbons of Lord Autumn. 

He growls to himself. 

Eventualities were not inevitabilities.

He moves to step forward along the beam and jerks suddenly when the ribbons looped around his neck, and antlers come short. 

“Lord Autumn, I am going to fall down if you continue to hold my leash so tight.” 

“I’ll catch you if you fall.” The harvest lord croons.

“I would rather not fall in the first place.”

Silence falls between them. 

The Beast opens his mouth and makes a gamble. 

“When you find my lantern, do not allow it to gutter out.”

Cinnamon-distress and apple-blossom surprise coat the inside of the Beast’s mouth. 

The maypole stares up at him as he makes his way further along the rafter. 

“I would prefer you simply blew it out.”

The silence stretches like an eternity as the Beast ties a loose bow around one of the rafters. He stands to hop to the next rafter over to start all over again. 

When the Harvest Lord speaks, it is careful and measured. 

“Ah,” He says. “Your lantern, of course.”

The Harvest Lord sounds mildly disappointed. 

“Of course.” Lord Autumn murmurs again to himself, quiet and private. 

The Beast moves on to the next bow. 

Eventualities. 

Inevitabilities.

* * *

The Beast holds the catskin at arm’s length. 

“Why are you filthy, Autumn King?”

The catskin grins around a mouth of too many teeth. 

“Well, I wouldn’t-” But the Beast is no longer listening, choosing instead to scent the air. 

He recoils and holds the catskin further from him, eyes wary. 

“You reek of blood and dirt,” 

“Well, yes, as I was saying-” 

The Beast catches a glimpse of the wound marring the catskin’s flanks. 

“You’re wounded.” 

“Hope Eater!” The Autumn Lord’s voice is sharp and makes Pottsfeild ripple at its edges. 

The Beast turns his gaze to fix on the gilded eyes of the catskin. 

Annoyance, not nearly as strong as the perfusion of blood, coats the inside of the Beast’s mouth. 

“I had a run-in with some dogs from the winter wilds.” 

It's an unassuming statement.

Life courses through him.

The Beast’s eyes swim with color.

“My wolves are here?”

He finds himself reaching, grasping for his forest. Its cold ice embraces him; he can’t fully feel the forest. 

He feels numb. 

He’s spent the last 200 years cut off from his forest, but he pulls it against him. For the first time in years, he weaves himself with his forest. 

For a moment, he feels whole. He feels the nooks and crannies of the winter wilds, he feels his lantern’s flame burning hale and hearty, he feels the paths and the roots and the ice. 

“Your wolves?”

The Harvest Lord’s gentle, imploring voice shocks him out of his tether to his woods. He severs himself quickly and focuses on the catskin he is holding by the nape. 

“Yes.” He hisses, eyes dancing with color. 

“Perhaps you can calm them down.”

The Beast stares down at the cat then cradles it against his chest. 

“Where.” He asks. 

“In the town square.” The cat purrs and the Beast sets off, shouldering open the barn and sprinting through the town. 

He skids across loose cobbles and leaps over Pottsfeilders, moving nimbly on swift feet.

Up over the slanted houses looms the maypole, whirling and twisting, ribbons throwing wide and snapping in the wind. 

As the Beast draws to a halt in the town square, he stares at the scene before him. 

The maypole’s ribbons looped, restraining flashing claws and snarling muzzles, his wolves straining against the maypole’s ribbons.

They whimper and growl and snarl, their eyes swimming muddled puddles of color, their teeth flash, and their flanks heave. 

The Beast has the place of mind to set down the Harvest Lord’s catskin gently before flinging himself into the fray. 

The wolves panicked yelping dissolved into excited yipping as he begins to sing, looping one arm over the more violent of the pair’s head to hold it steady. 

Soon both of them are bounding excitedly, tangled up in Lord Autumn’s ribbons, lapping at his face.

He cannot wrap his arms around one long enough to properly soothe them before the other starts nuzzling at him. 

“Shh, shh,” He croons, soft and cold, “All is well. All is well.”

Their yips bring news to him, word of the wilderness he shall never again tend to. They latch onto his hands and try to tug him to his feet, their tails batting wildly and their flanks heaving. They tug and bound and whine.

“Calm,” He commands them, but even that does not still them. 

He is distantly aware that the Harvest Lord and a few of his braver Pottsfeilders are watching him, but it doesn't matter because his wolves are here, and his wolves are distressed. 

He begins to sing.

“Come wayward souls,” The hymn is so familiar on his tongue, it makes him ache. “And wander through the darkness.”

He reaches for what little magic he has without the wood and pours it into the song.

“There is a light for the lost and the meek.” The wolves have stopped their frantic yipping and bounding, standing before him, flanks heaving and eyes rolling.

“Sorrow and fear,” He strokes slowly behind their ears. “Are easily forgotten,”

They settle down on their paws, calmer, more focus in their eyes. 

“When you submit to the soil of the earth.” The song dies on his lips, and with it, what little connection he had briefly held with his woods. 

They slobber and drool, tongues darting and lapping across his hands.

He sits there, on his knees, staring at his wolves as they lay like tame pups before him. The Harvest Lord’s ribbons shift around him. Slowly he runs his claws along their flanks, petting and keeping them calm. 

Sorrow blooms inside him. He must turn them away now. 

He leans forward, cradling each of their heads, humming gently and pressing his face against their fur. 

The scents of dirt and oil and damp forest flood his nose. 

He forces himself to stand. 

“Come.” He beckons them gently. They follow him obediently. 

He stoops and scoops up the Harvest Lord’s catskin.

He begins to walk, his wolves following him, playfully lapping at his heels.

He follows the tugging on his souls, flanked by his hounds, cradling his captor. 

He walks to the border. 

The north wind howls through the air, tugging at his furs, embracing him. 

The wolves hop over the fence with little prompting, and the Beast stands there waiting for them to make their way back to the wood. 

They bark happily. 

They trot forward and then stop, casting glances back at him, tails waving eagerly. 

“Go on,” He murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. 

The wolves take a few more steps forward and turn to glance at him again. 

When it becomes clear that he’s not going to leap over the fence to join them, they begin to whimper.

One of them circles back, ears low, whine in its throat.

Its teeth dig into his hand as it tries to tug him over the fence. 

“No.” He says. “I cannot come.”

The creature tugs more harshly on his hand as its companion waits with distress painting the air around it. 

“Go,” He commands. 

They whine and take a few hesitant steps towards the woods, casting backward glances to see if he’ll waver. 

“Go, do not return to these borders.” He reiterates. 

Agonizing moments pass, the wolves’ indecisiveness is written across their half steps backwards. 

Eventually, the Beast watches them retreat into the woods. 

He feels like he’s melting. 

Stiffly he turns back towards Pottsfeild. 

“Beast-” The Harvest Lord starts to say coaxingly from where he is cradled in the Beast’s arm. 

“I will patch up the catskin when we get back to the barn.” He says with a note of finality and walks back towards the heart of Pottsfeild in silence with the catskin cradled against his chest.

* * *

He ambles slowly, gingerly stepping around in precise patterns, dragging his feet to carve designs in the dust. 

He’s taken to creating murals on the floor of the barn as he paces back and forth and waits for the Autumn Lord to return from his duties and the search. 

The Harvest Lord casts open the barn doors and bows his head to enter the barn. 

He reeks of rot and cinnamon. 

“You smell distressed, Lord Autumn.” The Beast says, not looking up from his carefully crafted mural.

“Pardon?” The Autumn Lord smells surprised.

“You smell distressed, Lord Autumn.” He reiterates dryly. 

“What a keen sense of smell you must have, neighbor.” 

“Is it even proper to address me as such anymore?” 

“Hm?” The Harvest Lord questions distractedly as he circles carefully around the Beast’s portrait, his ribbons carefully tucked close to avoid disturbing the careful lines in the dirt. 

“I am no longer your neighbor. I live here now, for as marked as my days might be.” He begins to move faster, whirling, feet careful but quick, dancing alone in the sunbeams and dust motes of the barn as he traces a drawing with his feet. 

“Perhaps you are correct, but what would you have me call you then, neighbor?” 

“Pick a title. I have many. I do not care.”

“Hm.” 

“You have not answered me, Lord Autumn. What troubles you?”

“You did not ask.” 

The Beast pauses his dance to observe his work. 

He gazes at it for a long time. 

“So, I did not. Allow me to rectify that.” He skirts forward, whirling back into his dance. “What troubles you?”

“Your flame, what else?” 

“Do not give up hope, Death Rearer. Though large and ever-growing, the woods have an end, and my flame cannot burn forever. You shall find it, or it shall die unsupervised.” 

“Is that so?” The Harvest Lord asks distantly, continuing his predatory circling. 

At last, the Beast comes to a stop. 

The autumn lord pauses his circling, casting an inspecting eye over the dust mural. 

“What have you drawn for me today?” The harvest lord purrs.

The Beast taps his chin in the way he has seen mortals do when they are thinking particularly hard about something. 

He casts a critical eye to his drawing, the lines of movement, the sharp, harsh edges, and the flowing ripples throughout the piece. 

The shapes flow and meld and meet at harsh points and blend together in others.

“I have no idea.” He says flatly at last, and the Harvest Lord bursts into uproarious laughter. 

“Oh, dear, Hope Eater, what will I do with you.” He murmurs between fits of chuckling.

The Beast bats his eyes at him in what he hopes is a fair enough mimicry of a mortal. 

“Kill me, if what you’ve said is anything to go by.” 

It's clear that the Harvest Lord tries very hard not to laugh at that, that he’s trying to remain serene and grim, but his giggles ripple through the land and dance up through the Beast’s feet to rattle around between his antlers.

Morbidity works more often than not to make the Autumn Lord laugh.

“Oh, dear,” The Harvest Lord says between fits of laughter. “I suppose you’re right. It just wouldn't do for me to go back on a promise.” 

“Why if you were to go back on your promise, Autumn Lord, I might think you were actually a politician.” The Harvest Lord’s giggles start anew at the Beast’s deadpan delivery, and soon the Beast finds himself restraining blue dancing in his eyes at the Harvest Lord’s mirth.

“I  _ am _ a politician.” The Harvest Lord insists the maypole’s grin pulled wide.

“You’re much too honest to be a politician, Harvest King.”

"You wound me." The Harvest Lord leers. 

"Such honesty, if you were a proper politician, you would have lied." The Beast teases.

The maypole's ribbons twist coyly.

“Perhaps all the other politicians are much too dishonest to be politicians.” The Harvest Lord counters, mischief chasing away the destress in his scent. “I’m a model politician.”

The Beast’s eyes swim with blue, a retort already on his lips.

* * *

They are both more than a little drunk.

The Harvest Lord’s laughter hangs in the air, warm and inviting and impossible not to get drunk on. 

Or maybe that's the rum. He can't tell at this point.

The Beast isn't entirely sure what he said that made the Harvest Lord laugh, but he wishes he does if only to hear the sound again. 

Plenty washes up around him, sloshing over the sharp edges of his hunger so temptingly close. It comes in crests and falls like an ocean and the Beast a simple boat caught in its tides and left to its mercies. 

“And what do skeletons make good on, Winter Warden?” Enoch coos between fits of giggles, his voice ringing in a teasing tone through the Beast’s head, scent and presence amplified by the rum. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Harvest King.” He declares, which only causes the harvest lord to laugh again. 

“I’m absolutely silly drunk. You can drop the formalities- it's Enoch.”

“What’s Enoch?” The Beast asks as he stares into his cup, now only filled with the remnants of rum.

He downs the last droplets of alcohol.

“I am,” The maypole croons and takes the cup from his hand before pushing another, sloshing with alcohol, into his claws. 

“Hm.” The Beast hums into his cup, watching the way the liquid in it dances and ripples. “I’m the Beast.”

Enoch laughs. 

“I know that, dear.” The maypole coos, ribbons lacing up around his chest and steadying him from where he has begun to lean precariously.

“That is my name.” The Beast insists. “Not a title.”

Confusion taints the air. 

“The Beast is your name, Warden?” 

“Yesss.” He hisses delightedly, taking a sip of rum and getting more of it on himself than in his mouth.

“Such a strange name.” The maypole murmurs softly. 

The Beast cocks his head to look at him. 

He blinks up at him. 

“You’re a death god with a name synonymous with a distinct lack of death.” He says and then glances back to his cup. “At least my name is honest.”

Enoch laughs, ribbons rippling with mirth.

“Hmmm.” The harvest lord hums. His humming ripples and vibrates up through the Beast and through the liquid in his cup. “Did you choose it?”

“Choose what?” The Beast asks curiously as he downs his drink. 

“Your name, dear,” Enoch gently urges. 

“No,” The Beast mutters as he grabs a fist full of ribbons to braid. “I have chosen it among the other names I have been given, but I did not choose it.” 

He casts a curious glance up to the maypole. 

“Did you choose yours?” He asks. 

“Oh, I haven't a clue. I assume I did. It rather seems like something I would pick.”

“Yes.” He replies. 

“Pardon?” 

“It does seem like something you would pick.” The Beast pauses thoughtfully. “It suits you.” 

Enoch laughs, sweet and intoxicating. 

“I thought you said it was dishonest.” 

“Oh, it's certainly that.” The Beast murmurs around a smile, taking a sip from his cup, which is inexplicably full once more. “But it suits you all the same.” 

“Why, Beast,” The Harvest Lord cries in mock offense. “If I didn't know better, I’d say you were calling me a liar.” 

“Don’t mistake me, Enoch,” The name is strange on his tongue, odd and unfamiliar. “I am most certainly calling you a liar.” 

Enoch giggles. 

“You wound me,” The Harvest Lord croons between fits of mirth. "I thought you said I was far too honest to be a politician." 

"I've changed my mind."

As the Autumn Lord laughs, the Beasts finds himself grinning, eyes blazing blue, and giggling.

They stay there, in a giggling, drunken heap, reclining in the loft, until dawn.

* * *

It takes the Harvest Lord a long time to find the lantern, longer than they both expected. The Beast expected to survive perhaps 3 decades before the lantern went out on its own when his lantern bearer died. 

Evidently, she had passed it on. 

And they too had passed it on.

It had been 6 centuries. 

He and the Harvest Lord have grown close. 

Speaking late into the night, the Beast was not a quarrelsome prisoner. He often had the Autumn Lord, Enoch, laughing early in the morning. They spoke of many things: of politics, forests, moths, crops, pumpkins, mortals, and eternities. They sang lullabies, folk songs, operas, their duets as characteristic to Pottsfeild as crickets chirping or the dead walking.

They are close. 

Close as only a similar nature, a sense of humor, and different outlooks can be. 

They have fallen into the traditions of companions, coexisting, and enjoying the company of one another.

When the Harvest Lord finally enters the barn clutching a wrought iron lantern in his ribbons, the Beast knows that their fragile peace and companionship has, at last, come to an end. 

He tilts his head and clucks at the maypole, which itself reeks of grim determination underlined with distress beneath years of contentment. 

“You have found it.” 

He reaches for it almost idly, but the Harvest Lord pulls it out of his grasp. 

The Beast does not reach for it again. 

He shifts his attention from the lantern and to the bearer. 

He looks up at the maypole and knows his fate. 

He tilts his head at the Autumn Lord with eyes swimming with blue. 

Enoch remains silent as the grave. 

The Beast takes a step forward and speaks.

“When we first spoke of the lantern, you asked me to kneel before you, to pledge my realm to you and my allegiance.” The Harvest Lord does not speak, does not cut him off or protest, grief wrought in his ribbons. 

The Beast shoulders onward, his voice low.

“I cannot pledge my realm, nor can I pledge my loyalty to you, Autumn Lord.” The Beast takes a ribbon into his hand gently. 

He kneels, slowly, with all the ceremony reserved for kings. 

“But, I will pledge all I can promise to you.”

He looks up to the Harvest Lord one last time. 

“I pledge myself to you, Harvest Lord, even now in these final moments.” 

With that, he presses the ribbon to his mouth in a mimicry of a kiss and bows his head. 

He kneels there, the harvest lord's ribbon pressed into a kiss. 

He waits, eyes closed, head down, on his knees for the extinguishing of his flame. 

**Author's Note:**

> I discovered the Bad Thinks Happen Bingo (Which I will not be doing) and that they had a master's list of tropes. I have culled the list and found a several that I want to write and several more that I had already started. Forced to kneel caught my eye, and this story, which was going to be 3k of angst, instead I wrote nearly 8k of sort of angst. 
> 
> Have questions? Suggestions? Prompts? I'm on tumblr [Here](https://doyouknowhowtowaltz.tumblr.com/)


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